


Valió la pena

by dame5



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Juventus Turin, Loss of Parent(s), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 06:17:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14743521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dame5/pseuds/dame5
Summary: “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Pau. I don’t trust the element that surrounds you. Muchos de estos pibes les gusta ir al boliche. [Many of these kids like to go clubbing] They drink in excess. They have children by the time they’re fifteen. And that’s it. They are forced to bury their dream.”Paulo looks down at his trainers listlessly and reluctantly nods.“Each of us has a life project. If your project is to become a world class player, you have to do everything you can to protect it from ruin. As your father who believes in you…who loves you…this is the sacrifice I make to help you.”





	Valió la pena

The bus ride to Stadio Olimpico is relatively smooth, and Paulo anxiously peers outside the tinted windows before turning to look around him. Claudio, who’s sitting beside him, has dozed off. The initial surge of energy and team morale has quieted down. No one was playing cards anymore. They were either on their phones or catching a quick nap. His friend, Alvaro has put on his headphones—the biggest indicator that he doesn’t want to be disturbed.

Paulo shifts his weight, and looks outside the window once more. After a while, he feels like he’s looking without really looking. His eyes dart back and fourth as he fixes his sight on a tree ahead only for it to disappear in a split second, forcing his eyes to shift forward once more to take in the highway landscape.

Out of what seems like nowhere, his father comes to mind.

…

“ _¿Pero porqu_ _é, pap_ _á?_ I don’t understand— _why_ can’t I take the bus just like everyone else?”

Paulo had been stewing in silence for a few minutes while peering outside the window of the passenger seat before he broke the silence. He spins his head, and his large gray eyes search for his father’s eyes.

Adolfo strains his sight on the long stretch of road ahead and pulls his lips in, as if resisting the impulse to respond to his son.

“ _Ya tengo trece a_ _ñ_ _os, pap_ _á_. I’m _thirteen_ —not child anymore.” Paulo’s tone is now brooding.

“Because I said so.” Adolfo responds curtly.

Paulo doesn’t say another word. With a languid resignation, he looks ahead, noting a long, darkening streak of sky—a clear sign a storm was approaching. Spring was coming to an end, and warmer temperatures were setting in. But this also meant a higher incidence of flash thunderstorms. When they struck, they were usually violent downpours. The curtain of rain would not let you see anything in your way, so it was best to pull to the corner and stay put until the rains subsided.

The road from Córdoba Capital, to Laguna Larga was about an hour-long drive on the Autopista Córdoba Villa María; an expanse of road Paulo had etched too well into his memory. He’d spend an hour in the company of his father in their Volkswagen on their way to the training center and back home.

After what feels like another long stretch of silence, he feels his father run his hand over his hair, still damp and partially matted down from showering after practice.

“ _Hable con Pablo_ _Álvarez_. And do you know what he said about you?”

Adolfo temporarily takes his eyes off the road and throws a glance in Paulo’s direction. Their eyes meet briefly. Though his father looks stern, he can tell by the sound of his voice that something in him has softened.

“He sees something special in you, Pau.” He pulls his hand away to grip the steering wheel.

“I suppose you are right— _ya no eres m_ _ás un ni_ _ño_. So I’ll tell you why you are riding with me and not taking the bus to practice. And I say this from _experience_.”

Paulo shifts his body as much as his seatbelt allows him to and scratches his arm nervously.

“I’ve personally known many talented players who never made it, Pau. They had strength. Speed. Technical skill. They could have been the next Maradona.”

Adolfo’s mouth hangs open as if he is thinking carefully about what to say next.

 “And yet they fell through the cracks.”

Paulo’s eyebrows shoot up quickly in surprise but lowers them. He wants to pretend he’s unfazed, but he knows he isn’t fooling his father when he turns to look at him. His squinty dark brown eyes narrow as he shakes his head.

“ _Tenian mucho talento_ …but they didn’t have their head in the right place.”

“What do you mean?” Paulo responds bitterly. “You don’t _trust_ me? You don’t think I have a good head on my shoulders—”

Adolfo gestures for his son to calm down.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Pau. I don’t trust the _element_ that surrounds you. _Muchos de estos pibes les gusta ir al boliche._ [Many of these kids like to go clubbing] They drink in excess. They have children by the time they’re fifteen. _And that’s it_. They are forced to bury their dream.”

Paulo looks down at his trainers listlessly and reluctantly nods.

“Each of us has a life project. If your project is to become a world class player, you have to do everything you can to protect it from ruin. As your father who _believes_ in you…who _loves_ you…this is the sacrifice I make to help you.”

Paulo thinks back to a time he eavesdropped on an argument his father had with Alice, his mother. Both of them were unaware that he had gotten out of bed to get a glass of water from the kitchen, and he overheard his mother—on the verge of tears—begging his father to loosen up and to let him have some semblance of a normal childhood.

Between school, practices, and matches, there was little time for laughter. For spontaneity. No room to go on play dates or birthday parties. Paulo didn’t realize it until late that he had unknowingly put on a burden of adult-like responsibility and discipline when he began to play. And this burden was starting to weigh down on him. He loved his father, and they both shared a passion for football. But Adolfo was sometimes a difficult man to please. The more his capability shone, the further and further the goal post seemed to move. He could score a brilliant goal. But the focus would never be on what he did right, but on what he did wrong. A defensive mistake. An improper tackle that awarded the opposing team a penalty. A poor pass. A visible fear of colliding. He wouldn’t hear the end of it.

But his father had an intuition with how far he could go with him. Just when he’d sense Paulo begin to lose heart, he’d find a way to remind him that playing top flight football was something that he _wanted_. More than that. That it was something he was _meant_ to do. And that the price tag on this dream required many, many sacrifices. But it would all be worth it at the end.

“ _Paulo_ , Are you listening? _¿_ _Me estas escuchando?_ ”

His father’s voice brings him to the present moment.

“In the end, it will all be worth it.” A slow smile spreads on his father’s face, and Paulo forces himself to smile back. All of a sudden, he feels tired.

Maybe it’s the post-practice fatigue. Maybe it’s this incoming storm. Paulo’s eyes look straight ahead, and the sky looks menacingly dark.

The first few raindrops pelt the windshield. It was just a matter of minutes before the storm ripped open.  

…

Claudio gives Paulo a gentle squeeze on his shoulder, which startles him.

“Paulo— _piccino—siamo arrivati_.” [Kid, we’re here.]

Paulo nods, keeping his eyes downcast.

“ _Tutto bene?_ ” [Everything okay?] His pale blue eyes widen with concern.

“Don’t be nervous kid. We’ve worked hard for this. We’re just getting off to claim our victory.” Claudio runs the palm of his hand over Paulo’s back.

Paulo lets out an airy laugh.

“I’m not nervous Claudio. _Stavo solo pensando_.” [I was just thinking.]

In the brief moment their eyes meet, Claudio is quick to catch on the lingering feeling. He smiles, in a condolent manner before he looks away.

“Believe that his spirit is here, with you today. And that he is proud that his son has the strength and courage of a bull.” Claudio gestures with his head to the Juventus crest, plastered on the wall.

Paulo feels like his eyes are about to dampen but he manages to reel himself back in.

As they both stand to walk down the isle to get off the bus, Paulo holds onto one thought, like a fleeting bubble before it bursts—everything he had to go through for the privilege to be here today. _It was worth it_.


End file.
